LYRICS  FROM  A  LIBRARY 


LYRICS  FROM  A  LIBRARY 

BY  CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


PORTLAND    MAINE 

THOMAS     BIRD     MOSHER 

MDCCCCXVII 


COPYRIGHT 
CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

1913  :  1917 


CONTENTS 


THE  BOOK-LOVER      ....  3 

ON  A  COPY  OF  KEATS'  "ENDYMION"  5 

WITH   HERRICK  IN  SPRING      .  8 

JOHN  CLEVELAND,  POET-CAVALIER  9 

VIVE  LA  BAGATELLE       ...  11 

ON  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS    .          .  13 

THE  BOOKSTALL       ....  15 

A  FIRST  EDITION      ....  17 

A  BOOKMAN'S  PLEASURES        .          .  19 

THE  POET-CAVALIERS      ...  21 

IN   AN   ALCOVE            ....  23 

WILLIAM   WINSTANLEY,   CRITIC     .  25 

A  BOOK-LOVER'S  WISH     ...  26 

MAY  BY  AVON-SIDE           ...  27 
ALAS,   FOR  THE  FLEET    WINGS    OF 

TIME 29 

IZAAK  WALTON'S  NAME          .          .  31 

THE  POET 33 

AT  GOLDSMITH'S  GRAVE  34 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  FORGOTTEN   BARD        ...  35 

TO  WILLIAM  SHARP          ...  37 

THRENODY   IN   MAY           ...  39 

THE  SONNET 41 

AD   MUSAM 42 

KEATS 43 

A  SUMMER   MOOD      ....  44 

SIDNEY   LANIER          ....  45 

PHILIP  FRENEAU        ....  46 

GRENVILLE  MELLEN           ...  47 

THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  SONNET            .  48 

THE  TROUBADOURS           ...  49 

THE  SONNETS  OF  ROSSETTI    .          .  50 

TO  THOMAS  S.   JONES,   JR.        .          .  51 


VI 


TTROM  the  oriels,  one  by  one, 
•*•        Slowly  fades  the  setting  sun  ; 
On  the  marge  of  afternoon 
Stands  the  new-born  crescent  moon  ; 
In  the  twilight's  crimson  glow 
Dim  the  quiet  alcoves  grow; 
Drowsy-lidded  Silence  smiles 
On  the  long,  deserted  aisles ; 
Out  of  every  shadowy  nook 
Spirit  faces  seem  to  look, 
Some  with  smiling  eyes,  and  some 
With  a  sad  entreaty  dumb  ;  — 
He  who  shepherded  his  sheep 
On  the  wild  Sicilian  steep, 
He  above  whose  grave  are  set 
Sprays  of  Roman  violet ;  — 
Poets,  sages  —  all  who  wrought 
In  the  crucible  of  thought. 
Day  by  day  as  seasons  glide 
On  the  great  eternal  tide, 
Noiselessly  they  gather  thus 
In  the  twilight  beauteous, 
Hold  communion  each  with  each, 
Closer  than  our  earthly  speech, 
Till  within  the  east  are  born 
Premonitions  of  the  morn  ! 


LYRICS  FROM  A  LIBRARY 


THE  BOOK-LOVER 

LOVE  a  book,  if  there  but  run 
From  title-page  to  colophon 
Something  sincere  that  sings  or  glows, 
Whate'er  the  text  be,  rhyme  or  prose. 
And  high-perched  on  some  window-seat, 

Or  in  some  ingle-side  retreat, 

Or  in  an  alcove  consecrate 

To  lore  and  to  the  lettered  great, 

For  happiness  I  need  not  look 

Beyond  the  pages  of  my  book. 

Yea,  I  believe  that,  like  an  elf, 

I  'd  be  contented  with  a  shelf 

If  thereupon  with  me  might  sit 

Some  work  of  wisdom  or  of  wit 

Whereto,  at  pleasure,  I  might  turn, 

And  the  fair  face  of  Joy  discern  ! 

I  love  a  book,  —  its  throbbing  heart ! 
And  while  I  may  not  hold  the  art 


That  dresses  it  in  honor  scant,  — 

The  tree-calf  "  tooled  "  or  "  crushed  "  Levant,- 

Rather  a  rare  soul,  verily, 

Than  a  bedizened  husk  for  me ! 

So,  though  no  Midas'  magic  hands 

To  gold  transmute  my  barren  sands, 

Though  friendly  Fame  deign  not  to  lay 

About  my  brows  the  vine  and  bay, 

Though  fond  eyes  marry  not  with  mine, 

Nor  lip  to  lip  give  sacred  sign, 

The  core  of  all  content  I  know, 

A  blessing  that  is  balm  for  woe ; 

On  life  with  level  gaze  I  look, 

And  all  because  I  love  —  a  book ! 


ON  A  COPY  OF  KEATS'  "ENDYMION " 

TT  AS  not  the  glamoured  season  come  once  more, 
•*-  •*"      When  earth  puts  on  her  arras  of  soft  green  ? 
See  where  along  the  meadow  rillet's  shore 
The  wild-rose  buds  unfold  ! 

Eastward  the  boughs  with  murmurous  laughter  lean 
To  warn  themselves  in  morning's  generous  gold. 
The  foxgloves  nod  along  the  English  lanes 

That  saw  erewhile  the  dancing  sprites  of  snow ; 
Night-long  the  leaf-hid  nightingale  complains 

With  such  melodious  woe 
That  Sleep,  enamored  of  her  soaring  strains, 

Is  widely  wakeful  as  the  dim  hours  go. 

Ope  but  the  page  —  and  hark,  the  impassioned  bird 

That  through  the  hush  of  the  be-shadowed  hours 
Pours  in  the  ear  of  dark  its  melting  word  ! 
Here  is  as  mellow  song 

As  ever  welled  from  pleached  laurel  bowers, 
Or  e'er  was  borne  soft  orient  winds  along ; 
Here  may  one  list  all  ecstasies  they  sung, 

The  shepherds  and  the  maids  of  Arcady, 
Flower-garlanded  what  time  the  world  was  young ;  — 

Pandean  minstrelsy, 
Low  flutings  from  slim  pipes  of  silver  tongue 

Played  by  the  dryads  on  some  upland  lea. 


And  blent  with  these  are  heavenly  whisperings 

As  faint  as  whitening  poplars  make  at  dawn, 
Sublime  suggestions  of  fine-fingered  strings 
Touched  in  celestial  air, 

And  earthward  through  the  dulling  ether  drawn, 

Yet  falling  on  us  more  than  earthly  fair ; 
The  voice  divine  that  young  Endymion  knew 

In  the  cool  woodland's  darkmost  depths  by  night, 
When  godlike  ardors  thrilled  him  through  and  through; 

And  his  voice  from  the  height 
Whither,  on  wakening,  drenched  with  chilly  dew, 

He  sought  the  goddess  in  the  gathering  light. 

But  ah,  what  mournful  memories  are  mine, 

Song-wakened  at  this  lavish  summer-tide  ! 
Can  I  forget  that  sombre  cypress  line 
By  old  Rome's  ruined  wall, 

The  lonely  grave  that  alien  grasses  hide, 

And  the  pathetic  silence  shrouding  all  ? 
Who  would  forget?     Blest  be  the  song  that  bears 

My  soul  across  aerial  seas  of  space 
As  wingedly  as  airy  fancy  fares  ! 

For  now  that  earth's  worn  face 
The  radiant  glow  of  life's  renewal  wears, 

Would  I  in  reverence  seek  that  sacred  place. 

There  would  I  lay  these  woven  shreds  of  rhyme 
In  lieu  of  scattered  heart's-ease  and  the  rose. 


Behold  how  Song  has  triumphed  over  Time, 
For  still  his  song  rings  clear, 

Though  where  the  tender  Roman  violet  grows 
Deep  has  he  slumbered  many  a  fateful  year  ! 
If  to  the  poet's  rapt  imaginings 

Beauty  be  wed,  with  love  of  purpose  high, 
Despite  the  cynic  and  his  scornful  flings 

Song  shall  not  fail  and  die, 
But  like  the  bird  that  up  the  azure  springs 

Still  thrill  the  heart,  still  fill  the  listening  sky  ! 


WITH  HERRICK  IN  SPRING 


that  all  the  wakened  hills 
Arrased  are  with  tender  green, 
And  the  noon-gold  daffodils 
Greet  their  over-lord,  the  sun, 
Now  that  tulips  show  their  sheen, 
And  a  thousand  ardors  run 
Mead  and  orchard  lane  along  — 
Voices  virginal  with  song  — 
Here  's  the  book  unfolds  to  me 
How  to-day  may  still  be  won 
The  old  path  to  Arcady  ! 

Pastoral  revelry  and  rite, 
Clear  airs  consecrate  to  Pan, 
Dreams  of  innocent  delight, 
Love  in  frolic  guise  arrayed, 
Merriment  of  maid  and  man 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
Here  behold,  compacted  rare, 
Ever  fresh  and  ever  fair  !  — 
Herrick,  pray  reveal  to  me 
(Singer  Hesperidian) 
Still  the  path  to  Arcady  ! 


JOHN  CLEVELAND,  POET-CAVALIER 

T  T  E  was  a  fearless  fighting  man, 

•*•  -*     This  handsome  anti-Puritan 

Who  smote  with  pen  and  eke  with  sword 

Against  the  bluff  Cromwellian  horde. 

Disciple  deft  of  Doctor  Donne, 

Had  kindlier  fate  but  shone  upon 

His  curls,  in  cut  so  cavalier, 

Delightful  ditties  to  endear 

His  name  adown  the  years  might  ring 

For  man's  perennial  pleasuring. 

Alack-a-day  !     It  might  not  be  ! 

For  he,  of  his  Latinity 

So  proud,  so  fain  of  his  conceits 

Beside  the  Cam's  elm-bowered  retreats, 

From  haven  was  swept  fast  and  far, 

And  under  grim  War's  sanguine  star 

Was  rudely  tossed  and  racked  and  swirled, 

Then  pent  within  a  prison-world, 

And  finally  flung  forth  too  spent 

To  long  fight  life's  vexed  argument. 

You  know  him  not?     Have  hardly  heard 

His  lightest  claim  to  fame  averred  ? 

Well,  't  is  but  flotsam,  that  may  be, 

The  all  he  left  posterity. 

Yet  somehow  in  the  strokes  he  dealt 

"  Old  Noll,"  ( I  pledge  he  raised  a  welt ! ) 


And  in  dactylic  dash  displayed 
Anent  some  merry  Cambridge  maid, 
And  in  fleet  lyric  flights  where  he 
Ran  riot  in  hyperbole, 
I  seem  to  catch  —  elusive  —  thin  — 
The  magical  what-might-have-been ! 
So,  o'er  the  gulfs  of  Time,  good  cheer, 
John  Cleveland,  poet-cavalier ! 


10 


VIVE  LA  BAGATELLE 
C  SWIFT'S  CHEERFUL  CREED") 

A    BUMPER  to  the  jolly  Dean 
*•  •*•     Who,  in  "Augustan"  times, 
Made  merriment  for  fat  and  lean 

In  pranksome  prose  and  rhymes  ! 
Ah,  but  he  drove  a  lively  quill  ! 
With  quips  he  wove  a  spell  ; 
His  creed  —  he  cried  it  with  a  will  — 


Oh,  there  were  reckless  jesters  then  ! 

And  when  a  man  was  hit 
He  quick  returned  the  stroke  again 

With  trenchant  blade  of  wit. 
'  T  was  parry,  thrust  and  counter-thrust 

That  round  the  board  befell; 
They  quaffed  the  wine  and  crunched  the  crust 

With  "Vive  la  Bagatelle!" 

How  rang  the  genial  laugh  of  Gay 

At  Pope's  defiant  ire  ! 
How  Parnell's  sallies  brought  in  play 

The  rapier  touch  of  Prior  ! 

11 


And  how  o'er  all  the  banter's  shift, — 
The  laughter's  fall  and  swell, — 

Up-leaped  the  great  guffaw  of  Swift, 
With  "  Vive  la  Bagatelle  !  " 

Grave  moralist,  frown  not  so  dark ! 

Purse  not  thy  lip  severe  ! 
'T  will  warm  the  heart  if  ye  but  hark 

The  mirth  of  yester  year. 
To-day  we  wear  too  stern  a  face ; 

We  slave  and  buy  and  sell ; 
Let  us  forget  mad  Mammon's  race 

In  "Vive  la  Bagatelle!" 


12 


ON  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS 
(VENICE,   1493) 

THEOCRITUS,  we  love  thy  song, 
Where  thyme  is  sweet  and  meads  are  sunny, 
Where  shepherd  swains  and  maidens  throng, 
And  bees  Hyblean  hoard  their  honey. 

Since  ancient  Syracusan  days 

It  year  by  year  has  grown  the  sweeter, 

For  year  by  year  life's  opening  ways 
Run  more  in  prose  and  less  in  metre. 

And  than  this  quarto,  vellum-clad, 
You  could  not  wish  a  rarer  setting ; 

Beholding,  you  must  still  be  glad, 
If  you  behold  without  forgetting. 

Manutius  was  the  Printer's  name  — 
( A  Publisher  was  then  unheard  of ) 

A  fellow  of  some  worthy  fame, 
If  history  we  take  the  word  of. 

Think  when  its  pages  first  were  cut, 
And  eager  eyes  above  them  hovered, 

Our  proudest  dwelling  was  a  hut  — 
America  was  just  discovered  ! 

13 


Then  Venice  was  indeed  a  queen, 

And  taught  the  tawny  Turk  to  fear  her ; 

Now  has  she  lost  her  royal  mien, 

And  yet  we  could  not  hold  her  dearer. 

Betwixt  these  covers  there  is  bound 
A  charm  that  needeth  no  completion  ; 

A  golden  atmosphere  is  found 
At  once  Sicilian  and  Venetian. 

So,  while  our  plausive  song  we  raise 

And  hail  the  bard  whose  name  is  famous, 

Let  us  for  once  divide  the  bays, 

And  to  the  Printer  cry  —  Laudamus  ! 


14 


THE  BOOKSTALL 

FT  stands  in  a  winding  street, 

•*-      A  quiet  and  restful  nook, 

Apart  from  the  endless  beat 
Of  the  noisy  heart  of  Trade. 
There  's  never  a  spot  more  cool 
Of  a  hot  midsummer  day 
By  the  brink  of  a  forest  pool, 
Or  the  bank  of  a  crystal  brook 
In  the  maples'  breezy  shade, 
Than  the  bookstall  old  and  gray. 

Here  are  precious  gems  of  thought 

That  were  quarried  long  ago, 
Some  in  vellum  bound,  and  wrought 
With  letters  and  lines  of  gold ; 

Here  are  curious  rows  of  "calf," 

And  perchance  an  Elzevir ; 

Here  are  countless  "  mos  "  of  chaff, 

And  a  parchment  folio, 

Like  leaves  that  are  cracked  with  cold 

All  puckered  and  brown  and  sere. 

In  every  age  and  clime 

Live  the  monarchs  of  the  brain  : 
And  the  lords  of  prose  and  rhyme, 

Years  after  the  long  last  sleep 

15 


Has  come  to  the  kings  of  earth 
And  their  names  have  passed  awa)r, 
Rule  on  through  death  and  birth ; 
And  the  thrones  of  their  domain 
Are  found  where  the  shades  are  deep, 
In  the  bookstall  old  and  gray. 


16 


A  FIRST  EDITION 

A     MOST  exclusive  clan  are  we, 
•**•     Proud  of  our  peerless  pedigree  ; 
Will  Caxton  fathered  us,  a  man 
Shaped  somewhat  on  the  clerkly  plan, 
But  one  of  whom  we  're  fond  withal, 
Industrious  and  not  prodigal. 
Now  comely,  now  unkempt,  we  show  — 
Octavo,  duodecimo! 
But  whether  dimmed  or  bright  our  page, 
We  glow  to  know  our  lineage. 
Black-lettered  first,  clear-lettered  last  — 
The  present,  or  the  golden  past  — 
We  stand  content  our  fame  upon 
From  fly-leaf  through  to  colophon. 

As  among  all  patricians,  fine 

And  fair  ensamples  of  our  line 

Arouse  our  self-complacency ; 

Viz.,  Caxton's  priceless  Malory ; 

A  Tyndale  Bible  (choicer  none  ! ) ; 

A  Shakespeare  in  full  folio  done ; 

A  song  that  tells  of  Paradise 

Which  Milton  saw  with  darkened  eyes ; 

And  that  rare  "  find  "  of  later  vein, 

The  little  liber,  Tamerlane ! 

17 


And  now  a  word  of  warning,  ye 
Who  seek  our  constant  company  ! 
Unless  your  purses,  plethoric,  hold 
The  round  and  clearly-minted  gold, 
Abjure  us,  shun  us,  lest  the  night 
Creep  on  ye,  and  pale  candle-light 
Find  ye  by  us  uncomforted, 
And  slipping  supperless  to  bed  ! 


18 


A  BOOKMAN'S  PLEASURES 

IFE  yields  rich  pleasures  in  its  varied  round, — 
-*—'     The  fair  unfolding  of  the  season's  store, — 
Hearts  by  the  ties  of  faithful  friendship  bound, 

The  litany  of  love  and  all  its  lore ; 

The  bud  of  beauty  opening  evermore 

In  forms  of  fresh  perfection  that  allure ; 

The  morn's  unfailing  miracle ;  the  pure 
And  passionless  decline  of  twilight-tide ; 

Yet  what  gives  joy  more  sweet,  serene  and  sure 
Than  some  dear  volume  by  the  ingle-side  ! 

There  is  delight  in  melody;  —  the  sound 

The  minstrel  sea  makes  as  it  woos  the  shore ; 

The  strains  the  wind  evokes ;  the  music  found 
Where  feathered  throats  their  ecstasy  outpour ;  — 
In  stilled  aroma  from  the  rose's  core ; 
In  the  mime's  grave  or  comic  portraiture ; 
In  rest  and  dreams  when  rigid  frosts  immure ; 

In  deeds  self-sacrifice  has  sanctified ; 

Yet  what  gives  joy  more  sweet,  serene  and  sure 

Than  some  dear  volume  by  the  ingle-side ! 

Theocritus  whom  Grecian  garlands  crowned ; 

The  Mantuan  who  Augustan  laurels  wore ; 
The  sire  of  English  song  who  broke  the  ground 

Whereon  have  trodden  many  a  tuneful  score ; 

19 


Avon's  immortal  son  whom  all  adore ; 

The  twain  who  sleep  by  Roman  walls  secure ; 

And  he  who  far  from  Highland  loch  and  moor 
Keeps  his  last  tryst  where  southern  seas  sweep  wide ; 

Aye,  what  gives  joy  more  sweet,  serene  and  sure 
Than  some  dear  volume  by  the  ingle-side ! 

Friends,  of  the  many  pleasures  that  we  poor 
Mortals  may  taste,  the  while  that  we  endure 

This  wayfaring,  till  death  our  paths  divide, 
Know  there  is  none  more  sweet,  serene  and  sure 

Than  some  dear  volume  by  the  ingle-side ! 


20 


THE  POET-CAVALIERS 


\)[7HEN  darkness  mantles  meads  and  glades, 

And  shrill  the  north  wind  snarls, 
I  love  to  read  of  those  gay  blades 
That  trod  the  court  of  Charles  ; 

Those  who  made  mock  in  merry  song 

At  Fate's  "  abhorred  shears," 
And  wore  their  swords  and  love-locks  long,  — 

The  poet-cavaliers. 

Suckling  and  Lovelace  capping  rhymes, 

They  hold  my  fancy  thrall, 
Strolling  in  jaunty  ease  betimes 

The  gardens  of  Whitehall  ; 

Tom  Carew  with  his  pliant  grace, 

And  likewise  pliant  pen, 
Who  set  so  blithe  and  brisk  a  pace 

For  all  the  "  tribe  of  Ben." 

They  sleep  in  the  unfathomed  dark, 

In  Death's  uncharted  maze, 
And  yet  their  living  forms  I  mark 

Despite  the  lengthening  days. 

21 


So  twine  I  one  more  laurel  wreath, — 

"The  Muse's  coronals,—  " 
For  those  who  laughed  and  quaffed  beneath 

The  shadow  of  St.  Paul's  ! 


22 


IN  AN  ALCOVE 


more  am  I  at  middle  day 
In  tranquil  twilight  hid  away, 
Where  not  a  sound  disturbs  the  sense 
Of  book-encompassed  indolence. 
Pale,  grave-eyed  Science  does  not  brood 
Above  this  sunless  solitude, 
Nor  does  Romance's  ardent  face 
With  antique  glamour  fill  the  place  ; 
A  fairer  form  the  vision  views, 
The  gracious  presence  of  the  Muse. 
Small  meed  of  gold  she  offers  those 
Who  leave  the  wider  ways  of  Prose 
To  follow  where  her  foot-fall  leads 
Along  the  asphodelian  meads, 
Nor  is  she  prodigal  to  lay 
Upon  the  brow  the  wreathed  bay  : 
Yet  are  her  votaries  content, 
Aye,  more,  their  lot  seems  opulent, 
If  on  them  be  by  her  conferred 
Some  transient,  dream-evoking  word  ! 
It  may  be  but  a  whisper  low, 
Yet  straightway  are  the  skies  aglow  ; 
It  may  be  but  the  lightest  breath, 
And  yet  how  it  illumineth  ! 
And  though  beyond  all  heart-appeal 
Her  lips  a  cruel  silence  seal, 

23 


A  holier  influence  fills  the  air 
Through  her  benignant  presence  there ; 
Ah,  how  would  earth  and  heaven  unroll 
Could  one  but  know  her  lyric  soul ! 


24 


WILLIAM  WINSTANLEY,  CRITIC 
(1687) 

ONG  are  the  years,  Sir  Critic,  long, 
-•-*'     Since  you  your  galaxy  of  song 
Set  with  such  pomp  and  proud  intent 
Fair  in  the  Muse's  firmament ! 
We  can  but  smile  at  your  acclaim, 
Or  be  it  praise,  or  be  it  blame ;  — 
Whether  at  Milton's  fame  you  flout, 
Cry  how  his  candle  is  snuffed  out, 
And  glory,  in  judicial  ease, 
O'er  his  poetic  obsequies ; 
Or  whether  you  the  merits  chant 
Of  Cleveland  or  of  Davenant ; 
Patronize  Shakespeare,  or  dismiss 
Herrick  with  light  hypothesis. 

Out  of  the  misty  long  ago 
This  truth  your  volume  lives  to  show, — 
That,  though  their  wit  be  Hermes-shod, 
Critics,  like  Jove,  do  sometimes  nod. 
'T  is  Time  alone,  with  certain  hand, 
Winnows  the  gold  from  shard  and  sand. 


25 


A  BOOK-LOVER'S  WISH 

TV  I  stray  wood-ward,  not  for  me 

A     The  loudest  warbler  in  the  tree, 

But  rather  one  that  sings  apart 

The  simple  songs  that  touch  the  heart. 

And  so,  although  I  may  aspire, 

Be  mine  the  temperate  desire  — 

Not  for  the  missal-marvel  old 

Illumed  with  mediaeval  gold, 

Not  for  the  rare  black-letter  text 

O'er  which  his  soul  a  Caxton  vext, 

Nor  what  some  seek  through  shine  and  snow, 

A  priceless  Shakespeare  folio  ! 

But  only  this  —  one  little  book 

Wherethrough  do  bird  and  bee  and  brook, 

In  their  melodious  employ, 

Sing  on  and  on  and  on  of  Joy ; 

And  where,  amid  the  Maytime  flowers, 

Love,  without  rival,  rules  the  hours. 

One  little  book  —  whose  title  date 

Reads  quaintly,  1648 ; 

In  Saint  Paul's  churchyard,  we  are  told, 

Sold  at  the  Crown  and  Mary  gold. 

One  little  book  —  if  fortune  please  — 

Herrick,  a  "first"  HESPERIDES  ! 


26 


MAY  BY  AVON-SIDE 


should  you  stray  by  Avon-side 
This  Maytime  of  the  year, 
In  Charlecote  Park  will  sing  the  lark, 

And  roam  the  fallow  deer  ; 
And  the  white  plume  of  hawthorn  bloom, 
The  fair  web  of  earth's  wonder-loom, 
Make  lovely  Warwickshire  ! 

And  should  you  stray  through  Stratford  streets 
When  home  the  good  folk  throng, 

And  shadows  flit,  and  lights  are  lit 
The  winding  ways  along, 

From  out  the  casements  open  thrown, 

A-down  the  twilight  breezes  blown, 
Will  soar  the  sound  of  song  ! 

And  should  you  stray  through  Trinity  close 

To  bow  in  praise  or  prayer, 
Where  elm  trees  braid  their  shine  and  shade 

In  the  soft  Avon  air, 
Whether  it  be  by  stream  or  street, 
Or  where  the  minster  arches  meet, 

His  spirit  will  be  there  ! 

27 


Shakespeare,  of  the  immortal  phrase, 
Of  deathless  rhythm  and  rhyme, 

Above  the  transitory  days 
Still  radiant  and  sublime, 

The  glory  of  whose  name  and  fame 

Is  limned  as  by  a  torch  of  flame 
Upon  the  walls  of  Time  ! 


28 


ALAS,  FOR  THE  FLEET  WINGS  OF  TIME 
(BALLADE  TO   FRANCOIS   VILLON) 


prithee,  are  thy  comrades  bold 
With  ruffle  and  with  furbelow, 
Who,  in  the  merry  days  of  old, 

Made  light  of  all  but  red  wine's  flow  ? 
Where  now  are  cavalier  and  beau 
Who  joyed  with  thee  in  that  bright  clime  ? 

Ah,  dust  to  dust  !  —  and  none  may  know  ! 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time  ! 

Where  now  are  they  that  gleaming  gold 

Led  on  to  many  a  bandit  blow, 
Who  roamed  with  thee  the  vine-clad  wold 

And  shadowed  vales,  and  shared  thy  woe? 

Where  they  who  in  the  sunset  glow 
With  thee  heard  Paris'  sweet  bells  chime  ? 

Ah,  they  are  gone  !  —  and  still  men  go  !  — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time  ! 

And  where  are  they,  those  maids  untold, 
Thy  lighter  loves,  each  one  thy  foe  ? 

No  more  are  they  than  crumbled  mold, 
With  earth  above  and  earth  below  ; 
And  she  who  won,  aside  to  throw 

29 


Thy  love,  the  promise  of  thy  prime, 

Doth  any  seek  her  name  ?  ah,  no  !  — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time  ! 

Singer  of  ballade  and  rondeau, 

Deft  shaper  of  the  dancing  rhyme, 

Thy  name  alone  survives  the  snow  ;  — 
Alas,  for  the  fleet  wings  of  Time  ! 


30 


IZAAK  WALTON'S  NAME 

A  S  I  went  down  the  crowded  Fleet, 
^  •**     An  idler  without  aim, 
I  marked  above  the  roaring  street 
Dear  Izaak  Walton's  name. 

A  marble  tablet  in  the  wall 

( Saint  Dunstan's  in  the  West ) 

A  brief  but  fair  memorial 
In  graven  lines  expressed. 

How  sweet  'mid  London's  turbid  ways, 
'Neath  skies  so  dull  and  dim, 

To  find  in  terse  but  gracious  phrase 
This  kindly  word  of  him  ! 

Dear  Izaak  of  the  simple  heart, 

The  quiet  country  love  !  — 
I  saw  before  my  vision  start 

The  winding  dale  of  Dove; 

Its  slopes  that  shimmered  in  the  sun, 

Its  stream  that  rippling  ran, 
And  on  the  grassy  margin  one  — 

One  happy  fisherman  ! 

31 


Some  treasure  statesmen,  martyrs,  kings, 

Heroes  of  noble  fame, 
But  here  a  vagrant  rhymer  sings 

Dear  Izaak  Walton's  name  ! 


32 


THE  POET 

ID  him  wear  no  rue  to-day 

In  this  blossomy  tide  of  May ; 
Give  him  rather  for  his  wearing, 
On  his  faring, 
Something  fragrant,  something  gay  ! 

Wild-plum  spray,  or  apple-bloom, 
Verdure  of  the  cherry-loom, 

Chalice  of  the  amaryllis, 

Valley-lilies, 
White  or  purple  lilac-plume  ! 

So  shall  he  go  down  the  spring 
Like  a  gypsy,  vagranting, 

With  the  vernal  charm  in  capture, 

The  old  rapture 
In  his  heart  to  sing  and  sing ! 


33 


AT  GOLDSMITH'S  GRAVE 

Goldsmith's  grave  to-day 
I  found  a  wreath  of  bay, 
Laid  by  some  loving  hand ;  whose,  none  may  say. 

Though  since  he  ceased  to  be 
The  surge  of  Time's  great  sea 
Has  swept  unceasing,  green  his  memory  ! 

For  through  his  limpid  lines, 

Unfailing,  one  divines 

A  humorous  tenderness  that  sings  and  shines. 

'  T  was  his  unconscious  part 

To  touch  the  human  heart 

With  a  fine  feeling  that  is  more  than  art. 

So,  where  his  bones  repose 

In  the  gray  Temple-close, 

Shall  mingle  laurel,  ivy  and  the  rose  ! 


34 


A  FORGOTTEN  BARD 

TN  a  dim  nook  beneath  the  street 

-*•     Where  Pine  and  noisy  Nassau  meet, 

This  little  book  of  song  I  found 

In  a  scarred  morocco  quaintly  bound. 

Each  musty  and  bemildewed  leaf 

Bespeaks  long  years  of  grime  and  grief ; 

Long  years, —  for  on  the  title-page 

A  dim  date  tells  the  volume's  age. 

Ah,  who  was  he,  the  bard  that  sung 
In  that  dead  century's  stately  tongue 
In  those  evanished  days  of  yore  ?  — 
An  empty  name  —  I  know  no  more  ! 
Yet,  as  I  read,  will  fancy  form 
A  face  whose  glow  is  fresh  and  warm, 
A  frank,  clear  eye  wherein  I  view 
A  nature  open,  genial,  true. 

Mayhap  he  dreamed  of  fame,  but  fate 
Has  barred  to  him  that  temple's  gate; 
He  loved, —  was  loved, —  for  one  divines 
An  answered  passion  in  his  lines ; 
He  died,  ah,  yes,  he  died,  but  when 
He  ceased  to  walk  the  ways  of  men, 
Or  where  his  clay  with  mother  clay 
Commingles  sweetly,  who  can  say  ! 

35 


In  pity  will  I  give  his  book 

A  not  too  lonely  study  nook, 

Where  kindly  gleams  of  light  may  play 

Across  it  of  a  wintry  day ; 

And  I  will  take  it  down  sometimes 

To  con  the  prim  and  polished  rhymes. 

Will  thus,  when  the  gray  years  have  fled, 

Some  book  of  mine  be  housed  and  read  ? 


36 


TO  WILLIAM  SHARP 
(FIONA  MACLEOD) 

'  1  VHE  waves  about  lona  dirge, 

The  wild  winds  trumpet  over  Skye  ; 
Shrill  around  Arran's  cliff-bound  verge 
The  gray  gulls  cry. 

Spring  wraps  its  transient  scarf  of  green, 
Its  heathery  robe,  round  slope  and  scar ; 

And  night,  the  scudding  wrack  between, 
Lights  its  lone  star. 

But  you  who  loved  these  outland  isles, 
Their  gleams,  their  glooms,  their  mysteries, 

Their  eldritch  lures,  their  druid  wiles, 
Their  tragic  seas, 

Will  heed  no  more,  in  mortal  guise, 
The  potent  witchery  of  their  call, 

If  dawn  be  regnant  in  the  skies, 
Or  evenfall. 

Yet,  though  where  suns  Sicilian  beam 
The  loving  earth  enfolds  your  form, 

I  can  but  deem  these  coasts  of  dream 
And  hovering  storm 

37 


Still  thrall  your  spirit  —  that  it  bides 
By  far  lona's  kelp-strewn  shore, 

There  lingering  till  time  and  tides 
Shall  surge  no  more. 


38 


THRENODY  IN  MAY 
(IN   MEMORY  OF   MADISON   CAWEIN ) 

A  GAIN  the  earth,  miraculous  with  May, 
•*•  -^     Unfolds  its  vernal  arras.     Yester  year 

We  strolled  together  'neath  the  greening  trees, 
And  heard  the  robin  tune  its  flute  note  clear, 
And  watched  above  the  white  cloud  squadrons  veer, 
And  saw  their  shifting  shadows  drift  away 

Adown  the  Hudson,  as  ships  seek  the  seas. 
The  scene  is  still  the  same.     The  violet 

Unlids  its  virgin  eye ;  its  amber  ore 
The  dandelion  shows,  and  yet,  and  yet, 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more ! 

He  of  the  open  and  the  generous  heart, 

The  soul  that  sensed  all  flowerful  loveliness, 

The  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  child  ; 
Who  found  some  rapture  in  the  wind's  caress. 
Beauty  in  humble  weed  and  mint  and  cress, 

And  sang,  with  his  incomparable  art, 

The  magic  wonder  of  the  wood  and  wild. 

The  little  people  of  the  reeds  and  grass 
Murmur  their  blithe,  companionable  lore, 

The  rills  renew  their  minstrelsy.     Alas, 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more  ! 

39 


And  yet  it  seems  as  though  he  needs  must  come, 

Albeit  he  has  cast  off  mortality, 

Such  was  his  passion  for  the  bourgeoning  time, 

Such  to  his  spirit  was  the  ecstasy 

The  hills  and  valleys  chorus  when  set  free, 
No  music  mute,  no  lyric  instinct  dumb, 

But  keyed  to  utterance  of  immortal  rhyme. 
Ah,  haply  in  some  other  fairer  spring 

He  sees  bright  tides  sweep  over  slope  and  shore, 
But  here  how  vain  is  all  my  visioning ! 

He  comes  no  more,  no  more ! 

Poet  and  friend,  wherever  you  may  fare 
Enwrapt  in  dreams,  I  love  to  think  of  you 
Wandering  amid  the  meads  of  asphodel, 
Holding  high  converse  with  the  exalted  few 
Who  sought  and  found  below  the  elusive  clue 

To  beauty,  and  in  that  diviner  air 

Bowing  in  worship  still  to  its  sweet  spell. 

Why  sorrow,  then,  though  fate  unkindly  lays 
Upon  our  questioning  hearts  this  burden  sore, 

And  though  through  all  our  length  of  hastening  days 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more  ! 


40 


THE  SONNET 

is  the  sonnet?      'T  is  a  lovely  flower 
Of  fourteen  perfect  petals  !    From  the  bloom 
Exhales  so  soft,  so  subtle  a  perfume 
That  it  has  sweetened  many  an  empty  hour ; 
Born  in  a  beautiful  Italian  bower, 

Fair  root  it  found  beneath  the  glow  and  gloom 
Of  changeful  English  skies,  and  welcome  room 
In  other  climes,  each  richer  for  its  dower. 

What  passionate  attar  Shakespeare  from  it  won  ! 
How  it  for  Milton  bourgeoned,  and  how  Keats 

Nurtured  it  gladly  in  his  garden-close  ! 
Still  in  its  heart  hide  undiscovered  sweets ; 
So,  poets,  put  your  fondest  care  thereon, 
As  doth  a  gardener  on  his  rarest  rose  ! 


41 


AD  MUSAM 

T\/TUSE,  thou  hast  been  my  gracious  solace  long, 

-L  *-*      Making  melodious  discordant  days, 
Leading  my  feet  adown  the  pleasant  ways 

Within  the  precincts  of  the  gates  of  Song. 

Thou  hast  interpreted  grim  Winter's  wrong, 
The  vernal  wonder,  Summer's  bright  displays, 
The  pomp  of  Autumn ;  many  a  varied  phase 

That  life  reveals  with  its  trans-shifting  throng. 

The  rich  inheritor  through  thee  am  I 

Of  castles,  aye,  of  kingdoms !     Every  clime 

And  age  yields  something  from  its  treasure-store 
For  thee  to  clothe  anew  and  vivify. 

Dust  buried  by  the  tireless  hands  of  Time 
Thou  hast  transmuted  into  magic  ore  ! 


42 


KEATS 

as  the  pale  youth  dying  piteously 
Upon  a  lonely  pallet  in  old  Rome, 
I  think  of  Keats,  nor  lying  'neath  the  loam, 
With  violets  covered  and  the  laurel  tree ; 
But  where  the  long  swell  of  the  /Egean  Sea 
Upon  the  shores  of  Latmos  flings  its  foam, 
A  happy  wanderer  'neath  the  cloudless  dome 
I  dream  of  him,  a  spirit  blithe  and  free. 

Here  seems  he  one  with  glad  Endymion, 
Roving  the  windings  of  some  moon-lit  dale, 

Assoiled  of  all  the  sorrows  of  the  years ; 
Hearing  the  rapture  of  the  nightingale, 
And  knowing  love's  ecstatic  benison 

Beyond  the  poignant  touch  of  mortal  tears  ! 


43 


A  SUMMER  MOOD 

'  I  VHE  majesty  of  the  Miltonic  line 

Allures  me  not  to-day,  nor  paradise, 
Unless  it  be  in  Julia's  winsome  eyes 

As  hymned  by  Herrick,  with  his  lute-note  fine ; 

Not  the  Shakespearean  altar-fire  divine 
Beguileth  me,  save  where,  in  tender  wise, 
It  plays  through  Rosalind's  questions  and  replies, 

Or  Beatrice's  sallies  sets  a-shine. 

The  day  is  one  of  laughing  Lovelace  mood, 
Tricksy  with  frolic  fancies  such  as  gave 

To  Suckling's  wit  its  nimbleness  and  zest ; 
For  me  Terpsichore,  the  Muse  they  wooed  — 
Those  cavaliers  so  debonair  and  brave  — 
And  at  her  maddest  and  her  merriest ! 


44 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

'  I  VHE  marshes  spread  in  the  autumnal  sun 

Their  symphony  of  blended  green  and  gold 
As  when  he  saw  them,  wrhile  the  multifold 
Tide-heralds  of  the  ocean  race  and  run 
Vociferous  landward,  and  the  creek-banks  dun 
Feel  the  cool  gush  of  waters  o'er  them  rolled  ; 
Inlet  and  cove  caressed  are  and  consoled, 
And  the  parched  meads  have  cooling  solace  won. 

Ofttimes  from  sweet  communion  with  his  peers 
In  that  fair  bourn  beyond  the  dusk  and  dawn 

Whither  he  went,  our  eyes  with  grief  bedimmed, 
( Ah,  stern  are  the  irrevocable  years  ! ) 

I  dream  that  he  is  earthward  backward  drawn 
To  these  lone  marshes  that  he  loved  and  hymned. 


45 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 

that  the  vesper-planet's  violet  glow 
Is  smothered  in  a  welter  of  gray  cloud, 
And  all  the  winds  that  sweep  the  sky  are  loud, 
I  mind  me  how,  one  white  night  long  ago, 
Our  earliest  poet,  valiant-souled  Freneau, 

By  the  stern  stress  of  years  assailed  and  bowed, 
Fell  by  the  way,  and  found  a  fatal  shroud 
In  the  benumbing  silence  of  the  snow  ! 

When  the  young  nation  shook  with  war's  grim  throes, 
The  smiting  of  his  song  was  as  a  sword, 
The  light  of  it  was  as  a  beacon  flame ; 
And  though  the  drift  of  Time's  unpitying  snows 
Upon  the  mound  that  hides  his  dust  be  poured, 
It  may  not  dim  the  glory  of  his  name  ! 


46 


GRENVILLE  MELLEN 

that  livest  in  a  single  line, — 
"Above  the  fight  the  lonely  bugle  grieves,"- 
About  thy  grave  on  cloud-encompassed  eves 
The  banded  winds  in  consonance  combine 
To  breathe  forth  battle  strains  ;  —  a  fitting  shrine 
For  such  impassioned  utterance  !  —  the  leaves 
Falling  the  while,  and  sad  autumnal  sheaves 
Against  the  sunset  etched  in  weird  design. 

There  is  the  pathos  of  all  mourning  airs, 
And  of  the  fading  pageant  of  the  year, 

In  unfulfilled  ambition  such  as  thine ; 
And  yet  thy  brow  one  leaf  of  laurel  wears ; 
Niggard  of  favor  is  the  Muse  austere, 
Poet  that  livest  in  a  single  line ! 


47 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  SONNET 

13EYOND  where  Scylla  and  Charybdis  roared, 
•*-^     In  the  old  days  of  hale  Odyssean  worth, 
Where  pale  Proserpine  of  joy  had  dearth 
In  the  fair  fields  of  Enna  the  deplored, 
Where  asphodels  still  show  their  golden  hoard, — 
The  flowerful  largess  of  Sicilian  earth, — 
There,  it  is  said,  the  sonnet  had  its  birth, 
A  limpid  song  from  melody's  chalice  poured. 

And  they,  the  bards  who  shaped  the  stately  form, 
Their  names  are  but  blown  waifs  upon  the  wind ; 

Their  bones  with  yellowed  dust  long  since  were  one 
But  still  the  sonnet,  living,  vital,  warm, 
In  many  a  bosom  lovingly  enshrined, 
Sings  on  and  on  in  choral  antiphon. 


48 


THE  TROUBADOURS 

WHAT  of  the  bards  who  in  love's  white  demesne 
Made  lyric  dalliance,  and  linked  their  rhymes 
Beside  the  rippling  Rhone  in  bygone  times, 
Each  choosing  some  sweet  lady  for  his  queen  ? 
Gallant  they  were,  nor  scorned  the  battle  scene, 
Albeit  they  tuned  beneath  the  scented  limes 
Their  soft  lute-pleadings  to  the  castle  chimes 
Of  fair  Provence,  girt  with  its  vineyards  green. 

Shapers  of  song,  if  but  a  jest  to-day 
Your  art  is  made,  a  byword  on  the  lip 

Of  those  whose  hearts  this  age  of  trade  immures, 
Take  courage  !  you,  by  right  of  comradeship, 
Have  rich  inheritance  from  such  as  they  ;  — 
You  are  the  heirs  of  all  the  troubadours  ! 


49 


THE  SONNETS  OF  ROSSETTI 

REAM-LED,  methought  I  wandered  through  a  maze 

Wherein  immortal  Beauty  had  her  bower ; 
Delicious  waftures  from  the  jasmine-flower, 
And  floating  veils  of  delicate  amber  haze, 
Mysteriously  adown  mysterious  ways 

Were  borne,  and  every  part  of  every  hour 
Had  Song's  enchanting  cadence  for  its  dower, 
Paeans  immaculate  in  Beauty's  praise. 

Like  this  beguiling  maze  his  sonnets  seem 
Wherein  the  questing  wanderer  may  find 
Harmonies  haunting  as  the  twilight  wind, 

Charms  as  elusive  as  the  shores  of  dream ; 
Perfumes  far-drifted  from  the  Isles  of  Ind, 

And  all  of  Beauty's  glamour  and  its  gleam. 


50 


TO  THOMAS  S.  JONES,  JR. 

f  CAN  recall  within  some  orient  land, 
•*•     Where  every  dawn  is  like  a  golden  psalm, 
How  in  a  mosque,  beneath  a  stately  palm, 
I  saw  a  rare  mosaic,  deftly  planned  — 
Marble  as  stainless  as  is  Beauty's  hand; 
Deep  chrysoberyl  glistening  like  the  calm 
Of  ocean  ;  agate  like  the  tufted  balm 
Burning  in  August  woods  when  noons  are  bland. 

Aye,  and  the  burnished  bosom  of  the  jade, 
The  violet  veins  of  lapis-lazuli, 

The  topaz-heart  that  holds  the  sun  in  fee ; 
Thus  is  your  song-mosaic  interlaid, 
Not  only  lovely  to  the  outer  eye, 
But  to  the  inner  sense  a  harmony  ! 


51 


varied  Book  of  Life, 
How  hurriedly  we  con! 
Through  pages  sown  with  grief  and  strife 
We  reach  the  colophon. 

We  would  peruse  it  still 

Despite  its  stress,  but  nay, 
It  must  be  closed,  saith  the  Great  Will, 

And  laid  aside  for  aye  ! 


FOUR  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES  OF 
THIS  BOOK  PRINTED  ON  VAN  GELDER 
HAND-MADE  PAPER  AND  THE  TYPE 
DISTRIBUTED  IN  THE  MONTH  OF 
OCTOBER  MDCCCCXVII 


